The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(148)
The group was made up of the author H. G. Wells and his wife Jane, whom I had had the pleasure of meeting a few years before because of something that has no relevance here, and whom I greeted with genuine affection and pleasure; a beautiful young American woman by the name of Emma Harlow; a young drunkard propped up against a tree, who would later be introduced to us as Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard; and a phantom: Mr. Gilliam Murray. After I had recovered from the shock of discovering he was still alive, I greeted Murray with enthusiasm, which was not entirely due to my admiration for the Master of Time, but also because I was certain this coincidence could only be another sign that we were indeed on our true destined path. Was it not striking that we should by chance bump into the man responsible for Captain Shackleton meeting Claire, and therefore for his presence among us now? However, I should first point out that, as I already mentioned, the group seemed extremely disheartened by the situation, which was understandable, as from the hill we could see that the tripods had overrun the city and were destroying it with the slow tenacity of the termite. The majority of the city’s districts had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and here and there fires had broken out, giving off dense clouds of smoke, while crowds of panic-stricken Londoners attempted, amid a throng of vehicles of all types, to flee the city to the north and east, toward the distant fields, where there apparently were no Martians. And so, with the aim of lifting their spirits, I instantly, and in an admittedly unnecessarily theatrical manner, revealed to them the identity of my mysterious companion. And, as if Shackleton’s credentials did not speak for themselves, I described how I had just seen him annihilate a tripod before my very eyes. Unfortunately, Shackleton’s presence did not hearten them as much as I had expected. When I had finished relating his exploit, Murray looked askance at the captain, but finally stepped toward him, proffering his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Captain Shackleton,” he said.
I watched as they shook hands with grave solemnity for what seemed like an eternity. Unbeknownst to the captain, Gilliam had been spying on him through the keyhole of the future, letting us admire him from afar; consequently, the captain had traveled to a time where everyone knew of his exploits before he had even performed them. The two men could be said to have worked together without ever having met.
Murray finally released the captain’s hand, much to the relief of the others, and then said, with an exaggerated smile, “What a surprise to find you here. I could never imagine you in our world.”
“I’m sorry I can’t say the same,” Shackleton replied, in a tone that was surprisingly reserved in contrast, “but I’m sure you’ll understand that it gives me no pleasure to meet the man who turned my duel with Solomon into a circus sideshow for the amusement of bored aristocrats.”
Murray’s mouth grew taut with displeasure, but with surprising adroitness he resolved it into a smile.
“Why deprive the English people of such an exciting duel? You’re an extraordinarily accomplished swordsman, Captain. And one could even say I’m your most loyal admirer: I never tired of watching you fight Solomon. I confess that no matter how many times I witnessed your duel, I was always astonished that you defeated such a formidable adversary. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a difficult person to kill, Captain . . . it seems you’re protected by mysterious forces.”
“Perhaps my adversaries aren’t as formidable as you think,” Shackleton retorted coldly.
“Don’t you think we might leave this vigorous exchange of opinions for another moment, gentlemen?” Wells interposed, gesturing toward the beleaguered city below. “I fear we have more pressing issues to attend to.”
“You’re quite right, Mr. Wells,” Shackleton hurriedly agreed. “I, at least, have something much more important to do than to argue with Mr. Murray. My wife Claire, the woman for whom I left behind my time, is down there, in Queen’s Gate, and I need to go to her immediately.” He gave the author a meaningful look, which seemed to me disproportionate, and murmured, “She believes in me. And I won’t let her down for anything in the world. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Captain. We all do,” Wells replied solemnly, taking his own wife’s hand, “and I think I speak for all of us if I suggest we make our way there without delay. However, afterward, things being as they are, I think we ought to leave the city as soon as possible, which is what everyone else appears to be doing. We might, for example, try to reach Folkestone and from there sail to France.”
Needless to say, this new plan made me uneasy. How were we going to halt the invasion by fleeing London? Had Captain Shackleton traveled to our time only to run away from the Martians like a terrified maiden?
“I’m afraid I can’t accept this plan, gentlemen,” I protested. “Naturally, I’m grateful to you all for wanting to accompany us to Queen’s Gate, and I’m aware that, given the way the invasion seems to be going, leaving London is the most sensible course of action, but I don’t think that’s what we should do.”
The author was surprised. “And why ever not?”
“Because in the year 2000 our problem is the automatons, not the Martians,” I said for the hundredth time, feeling I was telling an unfunny joke. “Clearly, this can only mean the invasion will fail. Someone will find a way of defeating the Martians, and I think that person will be Captain Shackleton. I don’t believe he came here by chance. I’m certain the greatest hero in the world will do something to turn the situation around, because the fact is, he already has.”